


American Music

by InkandOwl



Category: IT (1990), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Miniseries, Music, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon Fix-It, The 90s, very mild though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkandOwl/pseuds/InkandOwl
Summary: The tape ends up being the sort of raucous noise that Richie spent a good amount of his twenties yelling at cop cars and playing at three am during his first college radio gig, but Eddie climbs into Richie’s lap, heart thundering under his ribs. “You can hear his fingers on the frets.” He pushes his body against Richie’s like it’s grounding him, “When he moves them, it scrapes.”“Do you like it?” Richie settles his hands on Eddie’s hips.Eddie nods seriously, “I love it.”-He loves Richie the way he listens to music.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 29
Kudos: 187





	American Music

When Richie wakes up, his throat is sore and he’s got a minor sinus headache. Minor, but he’s gonna be thinking about it all day. He coughs and swallows as much spit as his mouth can swill about, and everything about it is disgusting. It doesn’t matter, he’s annoyed. “I think i’m getting sick.” Richie says, not opening his eyes to bother and see if he’s alone. 

“No you’re not, you slept with your mouth open.” 

Even Richie’s eyes are dry when he pries them open, looking to his right. All futile, as there’s a human next to him— They’re human shaped with vaguely human colors, and there’s a terrible moment where Richie thinks that maybe he fell asleep in his contacts. Still, he rubs his eyes on the back of his hands and croaks out a content, “Spaghetti.” 

There’s supposed to be an exclamation point at the end of that. A declaration of the only thing that’s making Richie happy this morning, but that’s the best they’re getting out of him right now. Eddie leans over and kisses Richie’s forehead, “You were snoring, you sounded like a bear.” Eddie doesn’t sound all that mad when he kisses Richie’s cheekbone, his face, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips and then rubs the tip of his nose against Richie’s mustache, “It startled me, I almost hit you.” 

Richie fumbles blindly for the glasses he keeps on the nightstand and can’t help but laugh, “You were gonna hit a bear? Doll, you have no self preservation skills.” 

He opens his eyes back up to a very clear picture of Eddie; his own thin framed glasses on and a book held closed with a carefully placed finger. He’s probably been awake for an hour already. “You knew this, sweetheart, I stuck my arm in a killer clown’s face.” 

Richie pushes himself up, and the relief on his sinuses is almost immediate. Eddie slides out of bed, stretching his arms out while his back cracks. He’d known Eddie as a child, all buttoned up into his sensible trousers and his sweater vests; blond hair combed into the neatest part possible, and somehow— stepping around their bedroom at forty two, Eddie Kaspbrak seems the youngest he’s ever been. He keeps his golden curls fluffy and wild, far thicker and more luscious than any middle aged man has a right to have— and here he is, one of Richie’s overly laundered, faded Violent Femmes t-shirt on, hanging down to his thighs like they’re a bunch of college kids; draped around a dorm room and around each other. 

It’s not the first time he wonders what Eddie was like, after Derry. Before Derry. The betweenage of when they knew each other. If Eddie ever found himself, youthful and carefree in some other man’s bed, letting him kiss him and kiss him, blushing when he starts to touch Eddie between his legs. Fleeing back to the safety of his own room and his own sheets where he could tell himself that he was still clean. 

“Do you want some breakfast?”

Richie blinks and looks up at Eddie, where he’s setting his book down on the dresser, rubbing his foot over the back of his calf. “You working today?” 

Eddie leans against the dresser, shoulder pitched up and head cocked to the side, “Not what I asked, but no.” He grins, curled and lazy. 

“Come back to bed.” 

“Richie.” 

“I want to kiss you. Let me touch you.” Richie slouches into the pillows, laughs when Eddie goes a little red in the tips of his ears and rolls his soft brown eyes. 

Eddie doesn’t answer him, instead he reaches up on his toes to press on the radio, set atop their drawers. There’s a cassette spinning away inside of it; a mix from Lindell down at the station, who says he’s trying to get as many into the world before CDs do away with them entirely. Lindell, who doesn’t _say_ it, but handed the CD to Richie during one of his guest appearances and said wryly, “For that roommate of yours. Maybe you too, if you guys wanna exchange _notes_.” 

It’s not as bad as it was in the sixties. In the seventies and eighties, in Derry. Certainly not out here in LA, where a coworker that went harder than most at Woodstock can level him with an exaggerated wink as if he’s playing coy and then the tension of it broken up by his co host leaning back in his chair and saying, “Hey, Tozier, that pretty little blond you’re shacking up with run you dry last night? You look dead on your feet.” 

He hadn’t been run dry, not by Eddie that night, it was just age in the end. 

Age and going toe to toe with his demons. 

Richie feels older than his years, and Eddie is getting younger. 

Eddie spins in the doorway, leaned up against it shy, the way he does when he’s about to say something that goes against his good presbyterian upbringing, “I’m gonna go make us coffee—” He bites his lip a moment, “Brush your teeth and i’ll bring it back here to you.” 

Richie’s known Eddie long enough to know that he’s telling Richie he _will_ come back to bed. At least for a bit. “Spoilin’ me, Eds.” 

Richie does drag himself out of bed. Brushes his teeth, and puts in his contacts. He washes his face, trims his mustache so that he can put his mouth all over Eddie without him wriggling away from the overgrown whiskers. Richie pulls off his shirt, rinses off his armpits and goes scampering back to bed like he did when he was a kid; ready to dive back under the sheets the way he did when it was summer break and he could sleep in. 

The stereo is churning out Just Like Honey by the Jesus and Mary Chain when Eddie comes back, “Coffee pot is going.” He drops onto the bed, crawls up to Richie and flops down on top of his body. 

“If I start kissing you, I’m not letting you up, I don’t care how cold the coffee gets.” Richie lopes his arms around Eddie’s slender frame and hugs him tight against his chest, body still sleep warm and seeping through the cotton of his shirt. Eddie squirms against him, but not away— closer. “You knew that though.” 

Eddie leans up, plucks his own glasses from his nose and settles them on the nightstand and hums. “Richie, can you touch me?” 

“Where?”

“Everywhere.” 

And he does. 

Richie kisses him and kisses him, and touches Eddie between his legs like the men he’s created from his own want, only Eddie doesn’t try to get away. He spreads his thighs, shirt pushed up under his ribs, stomach soft and pale under Richie’s hand. Eddie whines, grabs weakly at Richie’s hips when he thrusts into him— beautifully flushed and breathless while Richie fucks him. 

It’s a steady creaking of the bed, gently thudding against the wall and Richie closes his eyes, breathes heavy against Eddie’s neck. It’s hot in their room, from the steady flood of daylight and sex, and it feels entirely stripped down to just them. It’s nowhere near the most adventurous they’ve ever been in bed, but it feels filthy. 

“You’re so good for me, baby.” Richie grinds his hips into Eddie, unhurried, taking in the tight heat around his cock. Eddie’s breath against the shell of his ear, and the pleading moans like he doesn’t know if he wants Richie to keep dragging this out or if he wants him to go faster. “Eddie—” Richie leans up on his elbows, “Look at me, let me see those eyes.” Eddie eyes flutter open, blown dark behind his soft, light brown eyelashes. “Beautiful. So beautiful, Eds.” 

Richie’s had sex with a lot of people. 

Eddie’s the only person he’s had sex with that he loves. 

-

They end up having coffee in the kitchen, crowded against the counter where Richie forgoes putting on clothing, and Eddie’s back to wearing only his shirt; now sweaty and wrinkled. “Roger brought in a really beautiful chevy on thursday, I’m staking my claim on it before Neil gets back from vacation.” Eddie says, partially around the rim of his mug. Coffee with more sugar than his mother ever allowed him. 

Richie runs his hand up Eddie’s thigh, over the soft, downy hair and thumbs at his hip. He carries on about the car, voice reverent as he talks Richie through the parts— the sturdy build that’s lacking in modern automotives. Richie is listening; not in the way that Eddie listens, or Bill, or Mikey, or Ben and Bev. Certainly not in the way Stan had. He listens in his own Richie way though. 

To the soft cadence of Eddie’s voice, and the shape of his words when formed around happiness. 

He fumbles with the hem of Eddie’s shirt though, forehead pressed to Eddie’s temple so that he can watch the way the head of his soft cock peeks out from under the material. It’s pretty and little just like his Eds. 

“Rich—” Richie looks up to meet Eddie’s face, amused and unsurprised. “What time are you going into the studio?” 

Richie plucks the mug out of Eddie’s hand, kisses him and kisses him, “Not until two, why? You wanna play around some more?” 

“Oh, like checkers?” Eddie saunters away, cheeky. “I dunno, Rich, you never play fair.” 

Richie spreads his arms wide like he’s not naked in the middle of his house, “I’ll play fair! I always did let you win at spoons.” He rushes forward, lifts Eddie up with his arms around his thighs. 

Eddie yelps but carries on, “That’s not true, you just sucked at it!” 

He’s dumped unceremoniously onto the couch and Richie kicks open his legs, “Tell you what else I suck at.” And he laughs when Eddie makes a noise of outrage. 

“Terrible!” He throws his arm across his forehead, “Awful, horrid, Richie, _Richie_ —” 

It’s all whimpering and moaning when Richie sucks him back to full hardness and makes him come again. 

-

“Hey, I saw you on Letterman last night.” The owner of the music shop is a guy named Nelson. Richie’s frequented it enough that they’re sort-of-friends by proxy. “That band they had on fuckin’ blew though.” 

RIchie hums something like agreement, but he’s not listening to Nelson. He’s watching Eddie carry a selection of CDs over to a set of headphones, draping them around his neck while he scans the top one. It’s a sort of ritual with them now. 

They come down to Nelson’s on the weekend, Eddie picks out ten to twenty albums and he samples each one until he picks out one or two he wants. They’re always different— spanning every genre, from classical to metal to folksy inde rock. Those are his favorite, even if he doesn’t admit it outloud. When he picked up She Hangs Brightly by Mazzy Star, Richie had come home a few times to hear Eddie singing it in the shower. 

Something that sounds suspiciously like polka blasts over the open headphones and Eddie lights up, looking at Richie with the widest smile before he laughs loud and bright. He’s sunshine, he’s the sun, he’s the center of Richie’s universe. 

“Richie—” Eddie says his name around a laugh, “Rich, do you remember Mr. Heinlen? He lived behind the drug store? He used to play all that polka music so loudly to try and drown out the sound of the kids in the baseball diamond.” Eddie looks over at Nelson, “Richie would do this _awful_ Russian accent and try to tell us it was Dutch, then he would make up lyrics to the polka. Oh, it was offensive.” 

Richie nods, “It was offensive.” 

“It wasn’t even in his top five worst though.” Eddie looks briefly like he’s having war flashbacks. 

“Is polka dutch?” Nelson asks. 

“Czech and Polish.” Eddie says proudly. 

“Just like you.” Richie beams. “Come here, my little pierogi.” 

The accent is cartoonish but successful, and Eddie sighs, entirely put upon, “Ugh, Richie.” 

He ends up beckoning Richie over to him anyways, because he’s not done listening to his stack of CDs and he doesn’t want to be interrupted entirely. It’s a failure because Richie spends the entire time warbling over the top of it or telling him the “Yeah, I met Lenny Kravitz once! He told me I was the hottest guy he’d ever met and it would be an honor if he could touch my abs.” To which Eddie had hissed out, “You’ve never had abs, Richie.” 

Nelson putters around in their periphery, before leaning over the shelf, shoving his glasses up his nose and leaving his expression scrunched up entirely when he asks, “Are you two like— a thing?” 

The thing about Nelson is; he’s young. He’s in his early thirties, and yeah that’s only ten years younger than Richie and Eddie, but in the grand scheme of emotional scarring brought on by society, he’s young! He still looks happy! He wears holey t-shirts with punk bands on them and ball bearing necklaces and smokes hand rolled cigarettes outside by his van. Nelson is the kind of guy whose humor is entirely shaped by seeing a skinhead get punched out at a Bad Brains concert, and that’s very rad. 

See, even Richie sort of lives on the fringe. He always has. He’s gotten into heated political debate and protest. He’s fought for civil rights, abolishing the prison system, and decriminalizing drugs, because he believes in it. What society thinks about that doesn’t scare him, and who he wants in his bed with him doesn’t scare him either. 

But Eddie is not Richie, and he tucks his hands against his chest and looks at Richie with startled, rabbit eyes. 

The world is not Derry, Maine, and it burns through Richie that a town with a population of 15,000 people and formerly one killer space clown, has left a film of shame on Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie touches Eddie’s shoulder, runs his hand over the tense fold of his arm before lifting it and pulling Eddie close into his side, “Yeah. Yeah, this is my Eddie Spaghetti.” And then he drops a kiss on top of Eddie’s soft gold hair. 

Nelson looks at Eddie like he can see the fear in the way he turns into Richie’s side, “Right on, man.” He says solemnly. “Listen, there’s these dudes that play out in SanFran, call themselves Pansy Division— Like Panzer division, get it?— They’re bringing queercore to the front lines. I’m telling you guys, keep an eye out for them, they’re gonna be big.” 

“Queercore?” Eddie's voice is quiet but his body turns out, slightly less guarded. 

“Yeah!” Nelson looks mostly thrilled he gets to talk about music, “You like punk? So like, it’s a big movement sort of like Riot Grrrls, right? They got a lot of inspiration from bands like Nervous Gender, the Dicks, all that fun stuff. Anyways, they’re a bunch of gay dudes making punk music, fronting their own political movements— Really breaking stereotypes, you should check them out. You want me to grab some for you?” 

Eddie looks briefly back at Richie, but there’s a sort of wonderment there, “Yeah—” he nods at Nelson, “Yeah, I’d like that, thank you.” 

They end up leaving with more than they intended to come in for, Eddie flipping over his copy of Hymn to Pan by the Apostles, reading each title out loud, before telling Richie, “Look, there’s a cassette in here too, JDs Top Ten Homocore Hit Parade Tape— Cassette’s not dead.” 

“You okay?” Richie asks as they’re rounding the corner to their street. 

Eddie tucks his bag under his arm, tilts his chin up in an inward act of defiance, “I didn’t know— about all of this.” He’s talking about the music, but mostly he’s talking about what it means. Eddie adjusts the frame of his glasses; a rounded pair with a thin golden frame that makes him look like one of those sophisticated european models that Richie sees in fashion ads in magazines. He’s wearing a heather grey henley with an oversized red flannel, cuffed at the wrists to match the dark, olive linen pants he has cuffed at his ankles. Eddie is so incredibly well dressed in a way that only a man who has put great stakes into controlling his identity can. 

Richie feels a little sloppy in his slip ons and pullover. “I guess I should’ve asked if I could do that. Say that to Nelson about us, I wasn’t thinking.” 

“Oh, surprise.” Eddie feigns shock, but he loops around on Richie, stopping in front of him on the sidewalk. He crosses an arm over his chest, lifts the other to his chin like an art appraiser studying a particularly worrisome statue, “I love you, Richie.” He decides on, and that sure as hell sounds like high praise. “I’ve always loved you, even when we were kids.” 

“No you didn’t.” Richie laughs and touches an errant curl, orange in the evening sun, “I’m not saying that’s your fault, I was _terrible_.” 

Eddie considers it, “A little bit, but we all were. I did love you then though, you were my best friend. You’re still my best friend.” And then he leans forward on his toes and presses his face into the column of Richie’s throat, hugging him right there in the middle of LA, which isn’t a very outrageous act for the area, but with Eddie— it sort of is. Eddie pulls back, reaches up to touch Richie’s face briefly and smiles. “Let’s get home so we can listen to this.” 

Richie tells Eddie delicately that he isn’t sure he’s actually going to like the music itself, and then learns that Eddie is actually a big fan of State of Alert and the Circle Jerks, thank you very much. So then Richie has to rewrite his demure twenty something year old Eddie in sensible cardigans and slacks, as a demure twenty something year old in a Los Saicos shirt and his pouty mouth curled around a hand rolled cigarette that he lights but never inhales. 

Richie would’ve tore him up. 

When they get back to the house, Eddie pulls the stereo onto the floor and sits cross legged in front of it, unboxing his cassette first. 

This is something familiar. Eddie focused in on whatever music he was blessed enough to be listening to, hand pressed gently to the top of a speaker like he isn’t actually experiencing the song correctly unless he can feel it too. He closes his eyes, tilts his head slightly and knits his eyebrows together— all of it so holy, one hand to his chest like a prayer and Richie sits down on the bed to watch him. 

When they were little, Eddie would do this a lot with Mike. There would be none of that devil worshipping, instrument having music in the Kaspbrak household— not while Sonia still lived and breathed and could occasionally drop some droll and tuneless hymnals over their record player. So Eddie would crowd around the radio with Mike, tiny body taught with anticipation as they would listen to jazz music, rock, Fats Domino and Little Richard with their fast guitars and fast pianos and voices loud and blistering. Mike would laugh and go, “They play their bass like this” and puff his cheeks out and walk his spindly kid fingers over an invisible upright bass, and Eddie would double over with happiness, pressing his cheek to the top of the radio so he could feel it right there in his teeth.

And Mikey— he could play five different instruments, from a melancholy piece on the piano, to a great honking march on his trombone. Hell, they would give him a kazoo sometimes and he would hoot out something ridiculous that would send them all into hysterics. Eddie might’ve worshipped Bill as the fearless leader of their childhood, but no one held a candle to the way he adored Mike. The way he knew what Eddie needed in his soul, and how most people listened to music, but Eddie internalized it. Soaked himself in it. 

Richie imagines if Eddie had the sort of love and support from his family the way Mike did; the sort of emotional outlet he needed, him and Mike would’ve ended up very similar people. 

The tape ends up being the sort of raucous noise that Richie spent a good amount of his twenties yelling at cop cars and playing at three am during his first college radio gig, but Eddie climbs into Richie’s lap, heart thundering under his ribs. “You can hear his fingers on the frets.” He pushes his body against Richie’s like it’s grounding him, “When he moves them, it scrapes.”

“Do you like it?” Richie settles his hands on Eddie’s hips. 

Eddie nods seriously, “I love it.” 

He kisses Richie then. Nudges his nose against the side of Richie’s and licks at the seam of his mouth until he opens it and he can push his tongue past his teeth. Richie’s never met someone who likes making out like this past the age of thirty, but it’s Eddie. _It’s Eddie_ , and Richie has no choice but to let him take everything he needs from him. 

Eddie shrugs out of his flannel, tugs off his henley and moves Richie’s hands onto his bare sides. “What do you need, baby?” RIchie asks him between kisses, brings his hands up to Eddie’s chest to thumb at his nipples. He fidgets under Richie’s touch and moans against his mouth when Richie pinches lightly at one of them, spinning gracelessly backwards so that Eddie ends up sprawled out next to him. 

“Feels good.” Eddie sighs out when Richie rolls onto his side, takes his nipple back between his fingers before leaning down to swipe his tongue over the pebbled flesh. Richie slides down his body and off the bed, running his hands down the length of Eddie’s lithe torso. 

It’s nice, being able to paw at Eddie in all the creepy, intrusive ways he wants, because Eddie stretches his arms above him and preens at the attention, biting back a pleased grin. “Look at my gorgeous babydoll. Sexy little trophy wife, huh, Eds?” Richie grips Eddie’s thighs, spreading them so he can fit between, bunching the fabric of his pants under his finger. 

“‘M not your _wife_ , Richie.” Eddie growls, his cheeks flushed. 

“Be my sexy little trophy husband, then. I’ll bring you to every red carpet, show you off to all those slobs in Hollywood.” 

Eddie looks at him, far too thoughtful and open, his eyebrows pressed together in concern where it dimples the skin between them. “One day.” He says, and it’s sad but it’s hopeful. 

Richie kisses Eddie in the center of his chest, “One day.” Because that’s what the punks are yelling over their speakers. Righteous indignation and pride set to a clattering drum beat, and how could they not feel hopeful about that. “Want me to suck you off?” Richie pulls at the drawstring of Eddie’s pants. 

Eddie shakes his head against the sheet, “I want you to make love to me.” 

Not hard and dirty like the music thrumming into their room. Richie tugs his sweater off, “Such a poet.” He teases, but Eddie leans up on his elbows to watch him undress between his legs with hungry eyes, “You want me to put on something more romantic? Light some candles.” Richie kicks off his jeans. 

“No.” Eddie watches Richie drag his pants off then, briefs and all, to join Richie’s on the floor, “Just you and me. The way it’s supposed to be.” Eddie holds his hand out so that Richie will climb over the top of him. So that he can bury his finger in his auburn hair, shaggy and in need of a haircut, and kiss him deep and open. 

RIchie is a man easily distracted by what he’s doing. Once he’s found his hands and his thoughts dedicated to a task, something he want to be doing, Richie stops thinking about the timing of it all together. So when Eddie ends up straddling him in bed, kissing him and gripping his shoulder, moaning and breathless and needy while Richie fingers him slowly, Richie doesn’t know how long he does it for. 

And maybe that’s what Eddie means by ‘making love’. Maybe that’s what everyone means by it. He pushes his fingers, lazy and steady, twisting them and curving them gently while Eddie unravels. Eddie feels soft and warm inside and Richie likes that he’s the only one who knows this. That he’s the only one who gets to have that velvety heat around him and Richie pulls his fingers out slowly. Eddie makes a noise of protest and Richie kisses his chin, “‘M sorry.” Richie says, not sounding that apologetic, then, “Sit?” 

Eddie fumbles for the bottle of lube behind him, off balance and laughs when he leans his forehead against Richie’s, “Hold still.” 

“I am holding still, what’s wrong? You got sea legs?” Richie kisses the tip of his nose, his cheek, his shoulder, again and again. 

“Yes.” Eddie huffs out and ends up settling back on Richie’s thighs instead, knees bent while he shakes the bottle out like it’s sunscreen. He strokes his hand over Richie’s cock, gets him slick from base to tip. Richie is so sensitive to the feeling of it, and watching Eddie lean forward enough to rub his own cock against Richie’s length, thrusting slow and thorough together. 

“Look so good like that.” Richie pitches his hips forward, “How do you want it?” 

Eddie lifts up onto his knees, “You want me to ride you— don’t argue with me!” He laughs before Richie can open his mouth all the way, “I want to, let me—” 

Richie is certainly going to _let_ Eddie do whatever the fuck he wants, as he sinks down onto Richie’s cock. He has to close his eyes, think about his breathing just to ground himself, because no matter how much they do it, he’s not really prepared for just how perfect he feels. “Yeah, let me know when your knees start giving out.” Richie says, voice strangled. 

“Fuck you!” Eddie blurts out, and he’s a rare swearer— especially when they get further out from their feral youth, and it makes Richie laugh wildly. “You’re supposed to be making love to me, be more loving—” Eddie’s words give way to bubbling laughter, and Richie grips Eddie’s hips, grinds him back into his lap until it turns to moans. 

“I can be so loving.” Richie rolls his hips up to meet every downward thrust from Eddie, “Because I love you, and I want to make you feel so good all the time—” 

There’s not much room for silence between songs, the mix filled with popping, scratching noise in the spaces, and Richie longs a bit for the sounds of their fucking. The soft slap of Eddie’s thighs on top of Richie’s, and their labored breathing. The slick noise of his cock drilling up into Eddie’s tight hole.

And maybe freedom is knowing that the world is a lot less terrible than they were led to believe, and maybe it’s Eddie finding that in the shape of a frantic bassline, or Kate Bush’s desperate plea about making deals with god— and maybe it’s in Richie watching him do it. It really feels like being here, now, with his best friend; having clawed his way into his heart and wrapping himself behind his ribcage, sprouting need and want and love. 

He pulls at the soft skin at Eddie’s lower back, at the stretch marks near his hips, where he grew and spread and managed to fit Richie back into his life. Into his body. 

Richie feels too hot, his skin burning from the inside out and he runs his hand up Eddie’s stomach, to the tacky, sweat soaked skin on his chest into the soft light colored hair spread over his pecks. His eyes are closed, head tilted to the side and eyebrows furrowed in concentration and Richie is struck with the familiarity of it. 

The way Eddie listens to music. He loves Richie the way he listens to music. 

“Eds, Eddie, _Eddie_ —” Richie pats his thigh a little frantically and Eddie gets adorably concerned as he slows in his lap, “Don’t panic, I just really need to fuck you now.” 

Eddie’s lips form a small ‘oh’ and Richie manhandles him off, rolling him into the mattress and settling his hand in between Eddie’s shoulder blades. Richie presses Eddie’s front into the sheets— not hard enough to be turned into something rough, but firm. Safe. He uses his other hand to curve around Eddie’s hip, pulling it up so that he’s prone and entirely on display. Eddie’s fingers curls into the sheets next to his face, and Richie runs his thumb over Eddie’s slick hole; pink and open a little still. 

He knows Eddie will start to get embarrassed if he looks at him there too long; start to squirm underneath his grip and kick back at Richie’s leg with his foot. It doesn’t matter how many times he has to tell Eddie that he doesn’t have to be embarrassed. That everything on Eddie is beautiful and perfect. How many times Richie can nip at the skin on his hip, on his side, on his thighs and say, ‘ _Love your gorgeous body, love your tight little ass, I’m an animal, baby, don’t you know that by now?_ ’

Untamed, untethered, sinking back into Eddie with a long slow thrust. Draping his body across Eddie’s back and not waiting for his breath to catch before he’s screwing the daylights out of him. Richie’s name is muffled, wet begging, rattling between Eddie’s teeth and the sheets— because Richie is an animal and Eddie is as wild as they come. 

The music is loud, tinny in his ears and shaking in his skull, as Richie’s hips snap quickly into Eddie, whispering filth to him. “Richie, harder.” Eddie whimpers, “Wanna feel you, want you to fill me up.” He begs and Richie settles both hands on Eddie’s hips, uses the leverage to pull him back onto him. 

Eddie is loud, unapologetic as he reaches between his own legs and strokes himself in time to Richie frantic thrusts. He pleads Richie's name, desperate and broken when he comes with a sob. 

Richie’s orgasm hits him so hard his vision spots in the corners and his grip on Eddie’s hips is undoubtedly painful. It leaves him so sensitive and undone that when he’s sauntering back to his senses, he has to hold Eddie as still as possible. “God, Eds, don’t move, I think I’m gonna die.” 

Eddie makes a sorrowful noise underneath him but he doesn’t seem to have the willpower to move either. Richie considers pulling out slowly, getting them a washcloth and cleaning them up, but his thighs are aching and his body feels like jello. He ends up flopping recklessly onto his side and Eddie whines and swats at him, “Be nicer!” He pouts and grimaces when he rolls over next to Richie. 

“‘M sorry, you zapped all my brain cells.”

“Oh.” Eddie says softly and Richie watches him reach between his legs, pulling his fingers back wet and ropey with cum leaking out of his spent hole. “This is so much, Rich.” He says, like Richie is in anyway in control of how much he unloads. 

“That’s your fault.” He slings his arm over Eddie's chest, closes his eyes and kisses his neck over and over, sleepy and sated. “You were so hot, begging me like that, all needy. Would’ve fucked more into—”

Eddie slaps his hand over Richie’s mouth. The tape clicks to a stop and Eddie’s eyes slide over to the stereo on the floor and back over to Richie, “I love you. Monster.” 

-

When Richie wakes up, he has fallen asleep in his contacts, and he’s fairly certain they’re now calcified to his eyes. There’s drops in the drawer of the nightstand, and he drips them miserably on his face until the seep into his crusty eyelids enough for him to open them properly. His body is sore, but in the pleasant, nicely worn out way and he’s wearing clean new pajama pants. 

Music carries up from the living room but it’s all just an undercurrent to Eddie singing over the top of it while he gets ready for work. 

“I need a date to the prom, would you like to come along? But nobody would go to the prom with me, baby—” He’s wearing a plain grey t-shirt, faded across his chest where he’d tried to bleach out a grease stain, and he has his coveralls tied around his waist. “They didn’t like American music, they never heard american music—” 

When he notices that Richie is awake, he lifts a coffee mug from the dresser and brings it over to him, pressing it into his hands when he softly sings against his lips “They didn’t know the music was in my soul, baby—”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter @PaperWarewolf !!


End file.
